Survival of the Fittest
by AivarBoneless
Summary: What are you willing to do to survive in a world where surviving requires great sacrifice? How far would you be able to go? Two survivors of the apocalypse - Ivar and James - would have their very humanity tested upon stumbling across a village after not eating for almost a week.


We were starving and we were weak, barely still able to stand. We couldn't even really remember what the last thing we ate was. Was it a can of baked beans? Perhaps it was tuna... or sardines... or canned peaches. Whatever it was, I couldn't remember its taste. Not only was the starvation slowly killing us both, we'd spent what seemed like hours on the same gravel road that went nowhere and stretched on endlessly. Every solitary step I took further served to drain me of all the hope I had left for our survival. My shoulders were being dragged down by my improvised backpack. I'd made it two days ago and it was already starting to fall apart. The few items of insignificant value I had stored away in it were soon about to spill out. I glanced over at James who was dragging his feet along the gravel a few yards behind me. He didn't look much better. The mountain backpack he was wearing hindered his every move, pulling him downward and slowing him down. Nonetheless, he kept on going and managed to keep up the already depressingly slow pace we were walking at. On his right shoulder was the leather strap of his Sporter rifle and in his hand he carried a wood-axe, which was – along with my sledgehammer – our only means of defending ourselves from the zombie threat. Thankfully, there was no need to use it against a fellow survivor. Yet. My steps grew heavier with each passing second and I was just about ready to fall to the ground and sleep right then and there, when I heard James call out from behind.

"Ivar... village ahead," he barely managed to cough out. Those words, like a match to a pile of dry tinder, ignited the flame of hope in me once more.

I looked up and saw the invigorating sight of houses rising from underneath the horizon. Instantly, every synapse in my brain was flooded with optimism. All I could think about was the food that was, hopefully, hiding in that village ready to be eaten by two weary starving travellers. We headed towards the houses, hoping for the best.

There was nothing. There wasn't a single can of tuna or spaghetti or beans. There were no chickens running around, no eggs in their coops. Even the apple trees and berry bushes were completely devoid of all fruit. We searched every single house, overturned every piece of furniture we found and still... nothing. The despair crept back again, enveloping our tired hearts in its grim veil. There was a water pump in the centre of the village. That's where we met up after we were done searching for food. That's where we sat down on the cold ground, finally having realised that there was no hope left. That was it. We were looking out into the wilderness, our backs turned towards each other.

"Fuck..." I heard James mutter under his breath.

"Fuck indeed," I replied, reflecting on the dark predicament we found ourselves in.

"To be honest... I was kinda hoping I'd die in an epic fire fight. Fighting for a greater cause or something along those lines," I pondered out-loud, vividly imagining those events playing out in my head.

"Wow, you're cliché sometimes, ya know that?" James commented.

"Sometimes?" I asked jokingly.

"You're right, _all_ the fuckin' time," he corrected his previous thought.

"What about you? You got any cliché ways you'd like to go?" I asked.

"Well... as boring as it is, I've always wanted to go in my sleep," he replied, deep in thought.

"Nah, it ain't boring. It's painless and it's peaceful."

"Yeah, I guess so. This sucks," he said with an agonising chuckle of hopelessness escaping him.

"Still better than being eaten by a zombie. Honestly, we're getting off kinda easy," I tried to comfort him, but, in truth, it was meant for me just as much as it was for him. I received no response, leading me to believe that my comforting didn't really work out.

I didn't say anything after that, either. I had laid down on my back, staring at the orange-lit evening sky just... thinking. Not even about anything important, really. I've heard people say that when a person is dying, their life starts playing before their eyes, like a film tape of all the greatest moments they've had. Maybe I wasn't dying just yet (even though it sure felt like I was), but it simply wasn't like that for me. Perhaps it was the lack of eventful things that have happened to me, but instead of these grand events from my life, my mind was full of short clips of things that might, to an outside eye, seem unimportant. Most of them were just small, quirky and endearing things that my friends used to do. The way a girl I used to know in high school would always be right, no matter about what. I used to find that quite strange at times, even a little creepy, but then, in that moment, it was the sweetest thing I could recall from my teenage years. How she would always remind me to listen to her even though the real reason I hardly ever recalled what she told me was because of my shit memory. I remembered when she would come over and I'd cook her knock-off Chinese noodles that she loved. Sometimes we would watch a movie. God, I loved movies. I still remember the time I saw my favourite one in the theatre for the first time. I swear, that was the single best night of my entire life. I found myself in that cinema again, reliving the best moments of the film. From the brutal and unapologetically profanity written beginning through the tension filled centre and finally to the heartbreaking ending. I remembered it vividly, all the sniffling and crying echoing through the room when the credits rolled. Even I was getting a bit teary eyed, but not my mother, oh no. She was a funny one. Most of the time, she would be this gentle soul that would be broken and reduced to uncontrollable sobbing by the smallest of things. But then other times, she'd be the _only fucking person_ in an entire theatre full of sadness that would just look over to me and give me a look of: "Really, dude?" as I'd be trying (and failing) to hold back my tears. Those were the memories that occupied my mind. I wasn't quite sure what I felt at that time, when I lay on the cold ground, reminiscing about these things... unbridled joy or unbearable pain. Or perhaps, both.

"You hear that?" I heard James whisper, snapping me out of my melancholy.

"Hear what?" I asked, confused as to what he meant. When I received no reply, I figured he wanted me to shut up as well and have a listen. At first, all I heard was the rustling of the leaves that were being blown from side to side by the early autumn breeze. Then... I heard something else. There was a rhythmic thump breaking through the rustles, barely audible but nonetheless present. It was distant, but I could hear it slowly getting louder and louder. There was no doubt about it. It was the sound of approaching footsteps. I glanced at James and he shot me a knowing look, telling me that he thought the same as I – there was a survivor coming over here. Our bodies were instantly filled with adrenaline, giving us both a huge boost in energy. James quickly picked up his axe and gun whilst I grabbed hold of my hammer, ready to defend ourselves with what little we still had left of our strength. We immediately rushed behind the two houses surrounding the water pump. I had gone to the one closer to the fountain and he hid inside the other one, looking out of the broken window with his Sporter at the ready. We figured the survivor would go for the water, after all, it was almost as scarce as food and all too often one would find themselves thirsty.

Briefly, I thought that we might've mistaken the footsteps of a zombie for those of a person, but no, it couldn't be. There was a distinct rhythmic pattern to them – a pattern not usually present with the undead. It was definitely a human. And, that human might've had what we were looking for. It didn't take long for him to appear in front of us, going for the water fountain like we predicted. He looked... well, he looked boring. Brown hair, neither fat nor thin, a stubble covering his lower face... ordinary. There was one distinct feature on him, however. The rather full-looking backpack he carried. We knew that that was our chance and wasting it was simply _not_ an option. I looked over at James who was busy chambering his rifle with a .22 round. Killing a complete stranger might seem a bit excessive, but the reality in which we live is cruel and sometimes, the only way to save lives is to take someone else's. Plus, shooting him is the most humane and painless way to end this ordeal.

I looked over at the survivor once again. He was kneeling at the water pump, calmly and unknowing of the danger refilling his empty water bottle. It was the most peaceful sight I'd seen in a long while since the virus broke out. But, at that time, all I could think about was how badly I needed to fill my stomach with something edible. I looked at James and he looked back at me. I gave him a final reassuring nod, letting him know that we're still going through with this. He took aim, lining up the iron sights with the man's head. Then, he pulled the trigger. _Click_ was the only thing that escaped the weapon. There was no bang and no bullet ever flew out of the barrel.

That click was enough to alert the survivor and he shot his gaze from one side to the other, scanning his surrounding to try and find its source. Since I was peeking from behind the house closest to him, he noticed me, but didn't seem to have seen James. I knew it then that this was not going to end like we planned it to. He started panic reaching for his axe. I had to do something about it otherwise he might actually kill me. With my hands still firmly gripping the haft of my sledgehammer, there was only one thing I _could_ do. Before he got the chance to fight back, I had already closed the distance between us. With all the strength I could muster I swung low and struck him in the knee, releasing a bone-y crunch on impact accompanied by his agonising scream. I must've shattered his joint and every other bone he had in there, because he instantly collapsed to the ground, still trying to prop himself up with his arms. His leg was completely busted, bent in an unnatural way and limp as a rope. I did not hesitate with my second swing either, hitting him in the right side of the face (the side that was facing me), crushing his jaw and cheekbone. He was now lying on the ground, crawling away from me in panic, crying out in pain as loud as he could with a broken jaw. It was in that exact moment, when I still had my hammer raised for the final killing blow, that I realised what I'd just done. It was the ugliest, most sickening sight I ever saw in my entire life and it was _me_ that was directly responsible for it. I mutilated him, crippled a man who did absolutely nothing to me, because... I thought he had something I needed. I backed away in utter horror, my fingers slipping from the shaft of my hammer, letting it drop to the ground. I kept on staring blankly at him as he lingered in that mangled state, still wailing. The killing blow finally came, when James finished him off with a clean blow to the head. He kept his cool throughout this entire mess, unlike me. It was like there was an earthquake of anguish and inside me was its epicentre. I was shaking, unable to cope with the cruel reality of it all.

"Holy fuck..." I said, gazing in utter disbelief at the survivor's lifeless body.

The realisation of my actions was so unbearably painful that my mind simply refused to believe it. There was no way, just... no way that _I_ was the one that did _this_. I would never be able to do something so heinous to another human being. That's right... this whole thing, it wasn't my fault. I looked over at James who had just retrieved his bloodied axe.

"C-check his backpack, man," I stuttered, still pumped full of adrenaline. He looked at me, wearing the expression of what seemed like worry. But, why would he be worried for me? I was fine. The man never managed to hit me with his axe. I wasn't bleeding, or missing any limbs. I was... fine.

"You okay?" he asked, sounding as if he was expecting a completely different reaction from me.

"Y-yeah, I'm alright. I... I'm alive. Let's just check his backpack and be done with this," I said, picking up my hammer and kneeling down next to the body to help with the search.

I'll be honest, it did strike me as a bit weird that James seemed like he was entirely unfazed by this ordeal. I mean, he's always been good with stressful situations, but this was going was going a bit far. Back in high school, I'd be the kid who was standing in the hallway with his notebook open, studying profusely five minutes before a test while also exploding with anxiety. James though, that bastard would just be there, amused by my discomfort and worry. He'd always tell me that I should've studied earlier and, while he wasn't exactly wrong, it wouldn't help me all that much. I've always been the type to worry about every minute thing. Frankly, I wasn't surprised that it was just _him_ was taking this whole situation so well. As a matter of fact, _I_ was mostly fine, as well. I guess the cruel post-apocalyptic world had its effect on me and formed me into someone with a much lighter conscience who can handle seeing such violence without breaking down. Not that I was complaining about it – a state like that can only be an advantage in such circumstances.

James, contrary to what I told him, instead started searching his pockets. No matter, I figured I'd be the one to go through the backpack then. I didn't lose any time with unzipping the Taloon bag and having a look inside. First I brought out a small bright red first aid kit. Inside, there was a pair of bandages and an empty blood bag. Medical supplies were always needed, so I was quite happy to find some. I reached inside again, feeling around the contents.

"Listen... it was him or us," James, without cause or warning, decided to speak up with a such dark and grieving tone that it sort of unnerved me.

"I know," I calmly brushed off his obvious statement without giving it much thought. Of course it was like that. There was no other way to spin it.

The next thing I pulled out was an empty canteen. He probably wanted to fill it up with water after he was done with the bottle. As I thought of that, I looked over at the pump, where the half empty container was still lying motionless. There was something unnerving about that image – the plastic jug on its side with water spilt out. It was as if it wanted to tell me something, but inanimate objects can't speak after all. I kept on staring at it, intrigued by what it made me feel, as some strange uncomfortable sensation grew ever stronger inside me. I quickly pulled my eyes away from it and cleared my head, focusing once again on the looting. He also carried a hunting knife. I tested the sharpness of the blade and when it successfully cut a few of the hairs on my forearm, I realised just how acute the edge really was. I was severely lacking any bladed tools, so that was quite a lucky find. Inexplicably, there was also a lug wrench and a lead pipe mixed in there with some other worthless junk. That must've been heavy. Why would he want to impede his movement by weighing his bag down needlessly? Sometimes, the logic of other people is lost on me. There were also some 7.62x39 mm rounds tucked away in a protector case but... that was it. There was no food. Not a single fucking can of anything. I looked at James who had just finished searching through the man's pockets, looking about as distraught as me. Instinctively, we both knew that this whole thing was for _nothing_.

"Fuck!" I exclaimed in sheer frustration at our misfortune. This couldn't have been happening. We killed someone and it was all for nought!

"There has to be another way," James tried to make light of our calamity, but even he realised that our circumstances were most dire. However, in that moment of his unsure optimism, it dawned on me. Perhaps his hope wasn't misplaced after all. I picked up the hunting knife from before and held it firmly my hand, looking intently at the sharp blackened steel blade, thinking about the solution to our problem. It was nothing less than gruesome, cruel and even inhuman, but, if we wanted to survive, it was necessary.

"You're right... there is a way," I quietly replied, hesitant to tell him about my plan.

"What way?" he questioned my statement, still thinking that we are doomed to die in this god-forsaken village. I just couldn't say it directly. It was just too... too appalling. I figured he'd get the message if I just hinted at my intensions. With the knife still in my hand, I diverted my gaze from the blade to the corpse that was lying between us. I was sure that James knew what I meant when he stood up in disgust.

"Oh no no no, _fuck_ no! We are _not_ doing that!" he raved, fuming with anger.

"James, it's the only way and you know it," I tried to convince him calmly, but at the same time sickening myself with my own thoughts.

"I'd rather fuckin' die," he bitterly announced before storming off. I can't say that I didn't completely understand his reaction. Hell, if I wasn't so pathetically afraid of dying, I'd probably join him.

Nonetheless, I _was_ scared of it. The uncertainty of it terrified me more than anything. Above all, I didn't want to die in pain. Starvation probably isn't the worst way to go, but it's far from being the most desirable, especially, when the solution was staring me right in the face - as horrific as it was. If there was a way to avoid it (and there obviously was), I would take it no matter how heinous it was. Even in this world of unimaginable misery and cruelty, I wanted to live on. As I approached the body, knife in hand, my mind wouldn't shut up about the wrongness of what I'm about to do. Every synapse, every molecule in my body wanted to prevent me from going through with this, but I was determined. Not even I could stop myself from it. I cut through the fabric of his jeans, exposing the thigh.

"I-It's just like skinning an animal," I said to myself to hopefully make it a bit easier.

I tried to keep the doubts about my actions at bay, but every so often, one would slip through the cracks. Did I really want to do this? Was it really worth living if it requires such monumental sacrifices? No. I can't let myself be consumed by these damning questions. I knew I had to stay focused, otherwise I'd get nowhere. I slowly brought the knife closer to the skin and as I did, a discouraging chill ran down my spine. Perhaps it was from the thought of cutting into the man's leg. No matter how I tried to spin this story, the fact I was about to eat the flesh of a fellow human being could not be justified beyond, _I want to live_. On the other hand, it might've been the fear of dying that sent that cold shiver through my bones. Without that very fear however, I wouldn't be able to keep the weapon in my hand, much less do what I was about to do. Enough was enough and I was aware that with every passing second I was closer to succumbing to my starvation. I pushed the blade into the flesh, piercing the skin and shoving the metal deeper inside. It made a sickly fleshy noise as it penetrated through the muscle and all the way down to the femur. It was singlehandedly the most sickening sound I'd ever heard. If I had anything in my stomach, I'd have vomited it up right then and there. But I knew that I had to keep going. I had to get this done. And I'd rather finish sooner than later.

I kept the knife inside the thigh for what seemed like an excruciatingly long amount of time, before I finally carved out a sizeable piece of meat. It was still drenched with sticky crimson blood, dripping it down on my hands and clothes as I held the flesh in my hand. The thought of it – that I would finally eat something after days of endless struggle with an empty stomach – filled me with joy as much as it filled me with dread over what I'd be eating. Nevertheless, it was still food. Now, all that was left for me to do was to build a fire. I wouldn't want to risk sickness of any kind by eating the meat raw. Since it was a strangely rainless autumn, dry leaves or sticks weren't hard to come by. These things littered a small circle around the very tree to which I was closest. On top of that, I also had a half-full matchbox in my backpack. One cannot survive very effectively if he's not able to make a fire. As a matter of fact, I don't believe he can survive at all, which is why I _always_ kept the fire-starter close to my person. Well, that and the fact that I was absolutely shit at starting a flame without it. All that hand drill, blowing and carefulness, I was no good at it. In a few minutes, I had my fireplace set up close-by. I didn't stray too far away in case James returned, but I also didn't want to be right next to the... the body. _What's done is done and I finally have a meal_ is what I told myself every single time my eyes passed over the remains. Not that I was wrong. On the contrary, I was completely right and it was that same conviction that made it possible for me to go through with it.

After impaling the raw flesh on the end of a sharpened long stick, I held it above the fire, turning it constantly and letting it roast. This wasn't a nice, calm barbecue session, however. The smell was anything _but_ nice. It was horrid, the worst smell you can possibly imagine. It wasn't just awful, it was shockingly, horrifically vile, as if the very idea of cooking human meat wasn't loathsome enough on its own. If my very survival, my whole life, hadn't depended on me grilling that piece of flesh, I'd have thrown it off a cliff and myself with it. I didn't have that luxury, however. I had to endure the wretchedness, dreading every moment I spent struggling in its clutches. Time felt like it slowed down to a frustratingly lethargic pace – making the whole affair that much more unpleasant. After god knows how many minutes had passed, the flesh _finally_ looked brown enough to be edible. I couldn't wait any longer. My stomach was eating itself and my organs were most likely starting to join in. My energy was being drained further and further for as long as my gut remained an empty pit.

I brought the stick up to my face and sank my teeth into the freshly cooked meat. I'd forgotten the feeling of it... the sensation of edible food in my mouth. The taste of something other than my own saliva. I couldn't keep my smile contained any longer. I was going to live. I was going to make it through this. I had never been this happy before. Admittedly, the texture was a bit chewy, but I've experienced far worse in actual restaurants that claimed to have high quality beef. I immediately went in for a second bite. Whilst it didn't taste as good as the first, I never expected it too. What was important was that I kept on eating until I was full and energized. The third bite was about the same as the second and so was the fourth. Then came the fifth and something felt different. Under the layers of meat, beyond the joy of eating and deep down inside my heart, something was stirring. A dark, barely noticeable yet still present feeling emerged from seemingly nowhere. I chose to ignore it and went in for the sixth bite. The meat was almost gone now, my stomach nearly full. Still, the sensation from before persisted. Only this time, it was even stronger and much more apparent. At first, I couldn't exactly pin point what it was. I couldn't comprehend why I'd be feeling anything bad after I definitively saved my own life. On the seventh bite, I hesitated. I stared deeply at the flesh on my slightly charred stick, the stirring in me becoming more substantial. Then, I heard a faint whisper. I didn't know where it was coming from, nor did I understand what it was saying, but I knew one thing for certain. It wanted to harm me. To hurt me and make me suffer. I don't even know why exactly, but I felt as if I _had_ to turn my head to the right. Almost like something or someone was calling me from that direction, begging for me. So I did. I turned and I looked and I saw it once again – the lifeless, motionless body of the survivor. The images of my assault on him, the brutal force with which I crippled him, they all came rushing back at once, flooding my mind, like a disturbing snuff film. It was deafening and blinding, all at the same time. It hurt so intensely, with such determination to torment me.

First, there was the shocking realisation of the reality of my actions. Before, I hadn't fully comprehended just exactly what I'd done. After my second strike across his face – when he was crawling away from me in terror – I was aware of it, distraught and frightened by it, but... not like this. This was as if a tidal wave had hit me head on, sucking me up into its vortex of destruction. Second was the anger, the unbridled rage over this mess. Who was to blame for this? Was it me? I was the one swinging the hammer. I was the one that maimed him. Am I the cause of all this turmoil? Or was it perhaps James and his inability to fire a single damn bullet. If he had done that one thing right, this would've ended much sooner and with much less bloodshed. The way the fucker kept his cool afterward... it was inhuman. How the hell can someone be so fucking calm after splitting another person's head open with an axe? Then again, this whole thing wouldn't have happened, if that survivor just arrived a few hours later. Or if he came to a different village to refill his bottle. No, it had to be _exactly_ the place where we were. It was all a sick fucking joke.

I was now on my hands and knees, trying to keep my rage under control.

"Fuck," I exclaimed.

" **Fuck!** " I screamed again, bashing the ground with my fist.

While still dealing with my anger, my eyes strayed to the stick that still had some flesh left on it. Of all the misery, among the grief and pain, _that_ was the worst part. Thirdly and finally, after my fury had slightly subsided, it was replaced by the most dreadful of all feelings – sorrow. Sadness, after realising all of it, from the moment I brought my hammer down upon an innocent man, to the moment when I cut into his body and ate the meat I carved off of his bones... all of it was real. In an instant, my eyes filled with salty tears, until there were too many and they started pouring down my cheeks and onto the ground. My stomach turned, making me sick. I nearly retched, but... I knew that if I threw up, I would lose the food I ate and with it my energy and my life. I had to keep it down. I had to keep it down, not matter the consequences, no matter anything else. Not only that, I was also fully aware that I needed to finish the meal, because if I didn't, the meat wouldn't last me for as long as I needed it too. I couldn't contain it – I let out an agonising cry. I was at my limit. At that point, the single solitary thing that kept me from taking that hunting knife and jamming it right into my throat was my fear of that exact thing – death. Trembling, with tears still clouding my vision and leaving streaks of salty water on my cheeks, I looked at the flesh once again. My hand was shaking so much that I almost dropped the stick when I tried to get it closer to my mouth, but I managed it, somehow. I took a large bite, leaving only one small piece of the meat still to consume. I chewed and I chewed and I chewed. Every single time my teeth sank into it, my stomach churned, wanting to expel its contents, but I kept it down. This wouldn't be the end of me. I swallowed with a sigh of absolute anguish, before taking the final piece of meat from the stick. I was trembling even more than before. I felt like there was a fever killing me from the inside. I kept on chewing until finally, the last bit was in my stomach. It hurt. It hurt so unimaginably horribly. It was more pain than I was able to take. But... I prevailed.

There I was, leaning against the outside wall of the house from which I sprung not an hour ago to attack someone. With my belly finally full after days, if not a whole week, of nothing whatsoever, I was simply tired. But, I was alive. Then, from a distance, I heard an all too familiar voice calling out my name.

"Ivar! Ivar!"

No doubt it was James. I was glad to know he was still alive, but at the same time, I was dreading it. I would have to tell him about _it_. Possibly even try to convince him to do the same as I did. It was an experience I did not want to go through. If it meant his survival, however, there isn't a thing I wouldn't do to make sure of it. He was approaching from the North, probably back from searching the nearby forest for berries or fauna – no doubt unsuccessful in his efforts. We had searched through many woods over the last week, tried to locate any animals we could hunt, but there was nothing. Even the most prominent of hunting spots were completely devoid of all life.

"Ivar!" the shouting got louder as he approached.

I was far too tired to get up and get to him. I just continued sitting there, with my back against the cold wall and a blank, tired expression upon my face. I hardly even noticed the blood that covered me. It was all over me – on my face, my green sweater, my ripped up black jeans and my hands, which were so bloody you almost couldn't see the skin underneath anymore. _If I saw myself, I'd probably think I was dead or a zombie_ , I thought to myself with a chuckle. Then, there he was. He turned the corner, panting and clearly exhausted.

"Ivar... I..." he tried to say something, but couldn't. I wasn't sure if it was his weariness that prevented him from finishing, but the pained expression he had must've been connected.

I was more than a little confused, honestly. My first thought was that he was distraught after being unsuccessful in his search, but... no. That wasn't how James would react. He would either be calm about it – to a frightening degree in fact, or he wouldn't say anything and just let the desperation consume him whole. He'd sit down next to me without a word and just wait for his inevitable demise. I was right. This wasn't the reason he looked so agonised. My eyes slowly moved from his face down his body, scanning every inch until I got to his left hand. In it, he held a freshly killed chicken.


End file.
